


The First Timeline

by SkelesinsForDinner (SivHeidrun)



Series: Timelines [1]
Category: Undertale
Genre: Frisk is not possessed by Chara, Frisk is physically male, Gen, Gender-Neutral Frisk, Spoilers - Neutral Route, Suicide Attempt, paranoia and anxiety, stream-of-consciousness-esque
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 22:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5801824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SivHeidrun/pseuds/SkelesinsForDinner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They fell. The weight of the world is mighty indeed. They didn't expect to survive.</p><p>But that's all they've ever done, now isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Timeline

**Author's Note:**

> Tags and ratings may be changed in the future to accommodate changes.
> 
> I play Frisk in rp and so this is just for me to further plan out their path before they RESET.
> 
> Before everything changed.
> 
> If I write what comes after the RESET, it may get shippy, but this on its own will not be.

The wind rushes around their ears, whistling, along with a feeling of weightlessness that carries them towards the ground. Everything tingled pleasantly. It is a rare peaceful moment that they’d not felt in years. Falling like this. They wonder, if this would be the last.

The last. They know what that means. They’d longed for it for so long. More than a decade. They don’t care to keep precise count with the ground rushing up to them.

\--Everything goes dark. Numbness returns. Silence. The silence is familiar. It always had been. Silence was safety. No threat, no annoyances, nothing. Everything returned to nothing, did it not? Right. That’s right. Nothing. Blissful nothingness.

But. There is a wrongness. Something wrong. A dreadful familiarity. A heaviness in their limbs.

Breath. Life. In the silence, a heartbeat breaks it. Theirs. The heart that won’t stop. Never stops forever, even when it should. It doesn’t. Never does.

Numbness remains, but that has always been the case. Nothing hurts. Nothing has ever hurt in a long time. 

Opening their eyes, they sky peeks out from the hole in the mountain. Mocking. “You can’t go back,” it seems to say.

But it’s only their imagination that supplies it. A mind altered by hardship.

It was why they jumped, after all.

It was why they wanted to die, after all.

Fitting that, for the one time they wanted to die on their terms, they don’t get it.

They look around; a bed of golden flowers. Carefully, they stand, not wanting to disturb them further. They laugh. Flowers broke their fall, just like in one of those video games. The protagonist comes crashing down and lands in a bed of flowers and survives. 

It’s amusing, but the laughing fit passes, eventually.

Carefully, they check themselves, their pockets. Everything but their phone is present. Right. It fell out of their hand when they fell. It’s not here.

It’s not like they’ll miss it. No one will miss them.

There’s no way to go back, so they go forward. Their body feels leaden, and there’s a mild thumping in their head. They push past it, and keep walking, boot-clad feet making barely a sound against the ground. Thump, thump, thump, goes their head.

Before long, there’s a flower, smiling at them. It introduces itself as Flowey. It shows them how things work, but as friendly as it seems, they don’t quite believe it. Somehow, they avoid the projectiles, and the moment they see the flower’s face twist in irritation, they know that it was the right choice.

It’s fun to see that kind of expression. Something akin to humor flutters in their heart. They’re not afraid when the creature intends on killing them. That’s fine. Might as well see if it can, right? So they stand and wait, and... nothing happens. They don’t even draw their knife.

Nothing happens. The attack misses, and the flower is blown away by a fireball.

...Suddenly, goat-lady with fireballs?

Suddenly, goat-lady with fireballs. They notice the pretty purple dress she has with the strange symbols on the front. She calls them a child. Why? Something smells odd. Why is she being so nice? Why is she smiling at them so kindly?

There’s a catch. There has to be one, but they follow her. They follow her through the ruins and the too-easy puzzle, and punch the dummy, and... she tells them to wait in the hallway.

They don’t wait. Their body urges them to keep going. There’s no reason to stop just because she says so. Besides, they have a new phone now, but they doubt she’ll even answer. But... they keep the phone, anyway.

They don’t call, and keep going. Strange creatures still show up, and without Toriel interfering, they take care of the problems themselves. 

Their knife is covered in gore and dust. It makes them wrinkle their nose and sneeze. 

\--It’s like ashes from a cremation, they think. Fitting.

The more they kill, the fewer show up to get in their way. They leave alone the ones that do the same, ignoring the way the creatures stare at them. Ignoring the fear. It doesn’t matter. It never mattered to begin with, so they keep going.

Arriving, the home is cozy. It’s warm, and it’s only with the temperature difference that they realize the coldness in their own body. Suspicious of the room they’re given, they try not to let the warmth of her hand in their hair to get to them, and they curl up on a bed that’s almost too small for them. They close their eyes, their knife clutched closely to their body, safely sheathed.

It’s only to rest their eyes, to warm up... that’s all. It’s not like they’ve been able to sleep well in ages.

...

They wake up when Toriel comes in, and leaves pie for them in the room, but they don’t let her know that they’ve woken up. She leaves and doesn’t hurt them.

Suspicious. Why is she acting this way? Doesn’t she know that it’s stupid of her to do so? 

When she is gone for good, they breathe slowly, carefully, and rub a spot over their sternum with an annoyed sound. How strange, that this feels warm.

Why.

Why?

It was foolish to fall asleep in a strange place. Why didn’t she kill them?

Their body trembles at the thought. What if she’s just lying in wait? Of course she is. Everything comes with a cost.

“Stop keeping me waiting and just say it already...” they sigh, annoyed. “Get it over with.”

It’s anxiety-inducing. Swallowing, they sigh and roll a little in the sheets, pulling the blankets tighter against their body. it will be fine. It’s fine. They’ll leave eventually and ignore her and it won’t matter anymore, anyway.

They close their eyes again, to rest. They find themselves dozing off and waking up often, as usual. They wake up screaming from something they can barely remember, and they hear a sharp whimper of pain.

When they finally see again, it’s Toriel, clutching a paw to her bleeding cheek.

They notice the unsheathed knife in their hand; drop it. Blood lands on the blankets; they don’t notice, and they wouldn’t care even if they did..

“...!”

The words refuse to come. Instead, they ignore her shocked expression and pull a handkerchief from their pocket, and press it to her cheek. Their facial muscles strain from the expression they’re making. They’re surprised that she’s letting them tend to her wound.

They hurt, and they don’t have the energy to lock it away unnoticed.

She looks hurt, too. Her eyes are watery. It’s difficult to understand the entirety of her expression.

“I’m sorry, Miss Toriel.”

They hear her words in reply, and read between them. She’s not angry...? Why isn’t she angry at them? They hurt her without due provocation!

“Please don’t wake me from now on. I don’t want this to happen again.”

As if they might sleep here longer, stay longer. Maybe they will.

They do.

It’s awkward. Snails are a common topic, and Toriel seems very excited to teach them things. They don’t even mind that she talks about teaching them, even though they’re twenty-three years old.

...They think, maybe, they like her. Nervousness settles in their stomach.

Second day, third day, fourth day.

She’s still gentle with them. Kind. It hurts. The self-loathing returns, the anxiety, the nightmares. They break a hole in the wall out of fear but Toriel only admonishes them once they’re coherent again.

Fifth day, they’re restless. They head for the basement, but Toriel pulls them back upstairs again. They resist, and she somehow still has the strength to pull them up.

“I’m sorry. I need to get back to the surface.”

This is a dream. They don’t want to be dreaming anymore. It’s not right. It’ll all be gone and they’ll be alone, hated. This isn’t real. There’s no way this can be real.

She seems sad and resigned, and gets up. They follow her, down, down the steps to the basement.

She talks to them like a child. “Go to your room. I won’t warn you again.”

They don’t.

“Prove yourself. Prove yourself that you can survive.”

They do.

Their knife is drawn. They trust her to defend herself. To defend herself until she has proof.

They take nearly every hit, not flinching, nor crying out. They don’t feel anything but the heat of her flames. It’s uncomfortable, but bearable.

They always hated the heat.

Their knife slices into fur and tender flesh, coming away red. They don’t fight her with everything they have. They’re not going to kill her.

Defend yourself...!! You wanted proof, didn’t you? They’re strong, so believe them!

B e l i e v e....

...

She staggers. Bleeding. She’s bleeding so much, but she seems satisfied. She tells them where to go, and to not let Asgore take their Soul.

They close the distance between them, press a stained kerchief to a worse wound, but...

....she turns to dust in their arms with a bittersweet smile.

As does her Soul.

Something else cracks, but they lock it away. It feels heavy.

So very heavy.


End file.
